


Spikes

by S_IRIS



Series: Holmes and Family [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baby Mycroft - Freeform, Babylock, Backstory, Character Study, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Holmes mummy is overprotective, Kid Mycroft, Kidlock, Mummy Holmes is a dominating young woman, No Plot/Plotless, Other, Parenthood, References to Mick Jagger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-18 20:29:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2361239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_IRIS/pseuds/S_IRIS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"No, you DO NOT make a baby's hair into Mohawk spikes, Benjamin Francois Holmes!" Maddy screamed upon seeing what Ben was doing and snatched baby Mycroft away from his father.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"But it's fun!" Ben protested feebly, eyeing his camera longingly. Babies looked cute and awfully hilarious in ginger spikes, more so a baby with a name like Mycroft.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Or, Ben Holmes' interactions with a baby called Mycroft Richmond Holmes, who he adored (because his ginger hair was adorable and unique, and because he started crying when he was prodded) and abhorred (because baby Mycroft took away Maddy's attention from on him) at the same time.</p><p>As usual, Ben is Daddy Holmes. Maddy is Mummy Holmes, Lizzie and Tamara are Ben's old friends, for those who're new. For everyone, yes I needed an 2K+ word long ficlet (excuse that) to write this, because it was so cute.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spikes

**Author's Note:**

> Raise your hand if you've ever made spikes in a baby's hair. *raises her hand, hopes no one sees her*

It didn't take Benjamin Holmes long to understand that a baby in the house was the worst possible idea ever.

Or maybe a baby as adorable as Mycroft. And who the hell named their baby  _Mycroft_? God, it was as big a disaster as _Flower Showers_. Maybe Ben was destined to be stuck with name malfunctions for all of his life.

Maddy fussed over Mycroft as she changed him, while the ginger little imp was still flailing around, not in control of any of his limbs, barely able to hold up his head on his own as he tried to peek at his mother's fingers. Ben leaned against the kitchen counter, watching her at work, and gritting his teeth as Mycroft sniggered at him for having been left alone behind his mother's back.

In spite of that, there was something incredibly sexy about seeing Madeleine Holmes changing their baby's nappies and breastfeeding Mycroft. She always did it away from him, secluded, and he felt like a kinky bastard for trying to spy on her.

Maddy had insisted on _Mycroft_. No, not Mike, or Michael (even if Ben had suggested that _her_ angel should have the name of an angel, and Maddy had simply told him with a smirk that Michael was an _archangel_ and that he should read the Bible properly). He was Mycroft, and she still called him _Mike_. What was the point of naming him Mycroft if she was going to call him _Mike_?

"That's my baby boy, that's my baby boy!" she clapped her hands and cheered enthusiastically as Mycroft tried to grab the rattle she shook. Then, she rose and with a granite expression at Ben that was nothing like the loving expression that she gave _Mike_ , she flicked her wrist as she looked into Ben's eyes. Her eyes still sent jolts of fierce desire through him even after all the years of being flatmates, together and being happily married.

But this time, her eyes only said _Take care of Mike; make sure he doesn't fall off the bed._

Ben eyed the crib slyly. Baby _Mike_ hated the crib, cried whenever he got near it. He would do that, torture the little devil when Maddy was out shopping. There was a list of things that _Mike_ hated and Ben had made a list of that. _Mike_ hated water and Ben had brought up hydrophobia and dog bites because they were such similar topics and Maddy had made eyes at him that suggested that what he was saying was not proper at all.

 _Mike_ loved being fed, that was what Ben knew. He hated being awoken from sleep prematurely. He hated the cold floor and always caught cold easily. Then, _Mike_ loved playing with shiny things like spoons and with the polished end of Maddy's umbrella. Although, his grip was too small, Ben had a hunch that by the age of two, _Mike_ would be able to poke him in all the wrong places with her umbrella.

 _Mike_ loved Maddy; hated Ben, and always made eyes at him behind his mother's back. One day, Ben complained to Maddy like a toddler complained to his teacher. Of course, the cheeky little imp was always the good boy to his mother.

Ben loved kids. But he hated _Mike_.

But this time, he went and scooped the baby up in his arms, swinging him back and forth. _Mike_ gave a delighted chuckle, the toothless gums showing. It was too late for Ben to duck from _Mike's_ sole weapon, his fist, coming down on Ben's forehead and sinking his small crescent moon nails into his skin.

"Oh, bugger!" He swore, holding the small bundle of irritation at arms' length as the baby stared at him with wide eyes, studying his father. "You drew _blood_ , you bloody. . . !" He cried accusingly.

 _Mike_ went back to contentedly gnawing on his fist, ignoring his father's suppressed cries.

"Do you want to go to the crib?" He scolded, trying to sound angry. The raking of the nails still stung.

At the mention of 'crib', _Mike_ looked stricken. Ben felt triumph, "Good boy."

At "good boy", _Mike_ allowed his hair to be touched. An idea came to Ben. He always did that with babies, but Maddy was always around and he never got to do it. Grinning cheekily at _Mike_ , he set him down on the bed, "Now, mummy is not here, so I'm just going to try this on you, okay?"

 _Mike_ just stared at him with wide eyes as Ben lay him down. Sometimes Ben wondered how a genius like Maddy could have such a dumb little boy. He peeped out of the door and towards the foyer. Satisfied, he arched over him, grinning. _Mike_ folded his chubby legs and brought them to his petite chin. With cautious eyes, he crept to the side of the bed and softly as Mike kept playing with his limbs, which seemed like the most important things to his in the world, other than his mother and the breastfeeding.

Ben threaded his fingers through his soft hair. So soft, so silky smooth. He slowly began to shape his hair into spikes like the hipsters did. He sometimes wished Mick Jagger could cut all his hair off and made his hair into spikes. He'd look so cool.

He eyed his camera. _Mike_ looked magnificent; he probably had no idea what his father had done. So he scooped the baby boy up and carried him over to the dressing mirror and held him up there. _Mike_ looked pleased. Or maybe he was just pleased to see his own reflection. He pointed at the mirror and started flailing his arms about, chuckling delightedly as if saying _Yay! That's me, that's me, daddy, come look!_ Ben smiled pleasantly and pressed a kiss to his spikes. _Mike_ didn't even eye them.

"You look gorgeous, don't you, Mikey baby? Aw, my lovely ginger boy!" Ben knew he sounded like an idiot, but anything, anything for his little, _beautiful_ boy. He would be an idiot for the rest of his life for _Mike_.

"You'll be so famous one day. And your daddy will be so proud of you. Hell, your daddy is proud of you already."

 _Mike_ blew into a drool bubble happily and cooed, his light eyes flaring up as if at the thought. He didn't have Ben's boring brown eyes, and Ben was more than happy at that. _Mike_ finally eyed his spikes and pointed at them eagerly, his little fist pointing at his reflection. He had an amazing sense of direction, Ben thought happily as he fondled his little digits.

"Oh, sorry for saying Hell. . . and sorry for saying it again. I'm not supposed to say that in front of you, according to your mum."

 _Mike_ looked like he was going to roll his eyes at that, but he couldn't, because babies didn't roll their eyes. All he did was try and touch his newly-gained spikes, as if saying _For the love of God,_   _don't remind me of such religious things. I've got spikes._

If only Ben had a hair gel, he'd use it on _Mike_. Make the styling stay permanent, maybe ask Tamara to make _Mike_ a superstar baby, let the kid do Johnson  & Johnson infomercials on telly. Maddy would be so pleased. . . she'd give him a long kiss. She hadn't kissed him since forever, always busy with _Mike_. . .

"No, you DO NOT make a baby's hair into Mohawk spikes, Benjamin Francois Holmes!" Maddy screamed upon seeing what Ben was doing and snatched baby Mycroft away from his father. Mycroft stared at his mother in confusion, as if saying _What are you doing, woman? Put me down. I was having a good time with my daddy and my spikes!_

"But it's fun!" Ben protested feebly, eyeing his camera longingly as Maddy brushed and flattened his hair. Sad. Now he would never be able to take the precious photo. Babies looked cute and awfully hilarious in ginger spikes, more so a baby with a name like Mycroft.

"But babies don't have spikes."

"Oh, so you're baby-rule maker now, are you? You know, he splinched my skin!" Ben complained, pointing to the rake of little nails Mycroft had left.

"I don't see anything," she squinted, and then glances at  _Mike's_ fingernails, "there's no blood on his fingernails, he couldn't have done that!"

Ben visibly deflated; that's why the cheeky little imp had been sucking on his fingernails, to hide the evidence. He knew he'd sound like a conspiracy theorist but—

"Because he chews his fingers, that's why you don't see!"

 _Mike_ heaved an enormous Holmesian sigh, as if saying _Why're you two fighting? Look at me, I'm so cool. I have spikes._ Almost as if to make his point, he pointed to his head, and then started wailing loudly, apparently at the thought that he had lost his spikes.

"Look at that," Maddy patted him comfortingly. "You made him cry!"

And she took him away. Ben slouched. Sometimes, her protective instincts were way too overwhelming.

 

\- - -

 

Eleven years later:

"Daddy!" Mycroft looked up from the new IBM PC in their living room. It didn't serve much purpose, and all Mycroft did was sit there and type something that Ben couldn't really comprehend. Mycroft had said something about DOS shell or something, and Ben had only pretended to understand that. He knew only egg shells and tortoise sheels and snail shells.

And potato shells. But not DOS shells. Good heavens, what were the kids of today up to now-a-days?

"Yes?"

"You were so lucky to have gone to the London School of Economics," he said, and Ben tried not to sigh. He could literally feel Maddy's eyes on him as she sat at a distance and played with little Sherlock, not as big a name disaster as _Mycroft_ , but still. She had told him to go back to complete his BSc in Economic History and graduate properly from LSE, but Ben felt like he would be neglecting his duty to his family if he went back there to study again. After all, Maddy had a baby to take care of, plus her high-pressure professorship. He had to support them and work full time. He needed the money, and he was absolutely not going to take a single quid from his father.

Moreover, he liked photography more than studying about policies and reforms that existed way before his Granddad had even taken his first breath. As selfish as that sounded, it was even more selfish to not take note of the love of his life struggling with a baby and her stupid students singlehandedly. Sometimes, all Ben wanted was to keep her at home, safe and sound, and never let her face those stupid immature kids in the university.

But then, she'd hate him if he did that. She loved the freedom.

"Don't tell me you looked into my certificates again." He sighed. Mycroft tried to look innocent.

"I don't know what you're talking about, daddy. But. . . London School of Economics, that. . . you were so lucky!"

"Yes," Ben could hear Maddy's voice. "He was."

Lizzie had probably told Maddy all about the 1969 student riots, and about Ben's active participation. He could hear that in her voice.

"Mike. . . croft," he corrected himself, because Mycroft wasn't fond of his name being butchered like that. He smirked at his eleven-year-old boy. "Did you know that even Mick Jagger attended the London School of Economics, and his tutors said that he was a _promising_ student? Promising is the keyword, Mycroft."

Mycroft stared at him incredulously. "You're not serious. _Mick Jagger_?"

"Yes. Three A levels and seven O levels. Go ahead; go and verify it for yourself. _Legwork._ " The magic word. Mycroft would never bother with that. He'd rather accept his father's data, which was actually true. It was the sole reason why Ben had put his finger on the London School of Economics of all universities.

"Eugch!"

"I also happen to have a photo somewhere," Ben rose and beckoned an unwilling Mycroft over as he walked over to an almirah and within minutes, Maddy sighed as she saw father and son seated on the floor as Ben browsed through his albums and albums of Mycroft's childhood and toddler-hood. Being a photographer by occupation only meant that Ben kept taking loads of photos of his two boys all day. Mycroft had grown out of his hatred for cold floors.

Over time, Ben forgot about the photos of LSE when he found a babyhood picture of Mycroft. When he produced it, Mycroft looked stricken with horror for one second as his fingers reached to protectively curl around his ginger hair. He knew who the baby in the photo was, but asked again, just to make sure that it was not him. "Sherlock looks stupid, as always."

Sherlock threw the traditional Holmesian sulk in his mother's lap, and Maddy almost hissed at Mycroft for conspiring to send Sherlock running about in the house again instead of spending two quiet minutes in her lap. She patted his dark soft curls soothingly and he tried to shake off her hand, trying to make his sulk more genuine and serious.

Ben gave a short laugh. "Oh, but this isn't Sherlock, this is you! God, I loved the spikes in your hair."

"Eugch!"

Mycroft snatched the photo away as he heard Maddy and Sherlock burst into identical giggles behind him. Before Sherlock could come see his big brother's baby photo, Mycroft hid the photo securely and rolled his eyes at his father as if saying  _Why're you being so immature? You're supposed to be more than thrice my age!_  

"Haha," Sherlock still cackled, even though he didn't see the photo or didn't even know what 'spikes' in the hair looked like. He just assumed it was funny because his mother and father laughed. "Big brother Myc. Funny. Spikes!"

"Shut up!" Mycroft hissed at him, and Maddy tutted affectionately.

"Myc! Why don't you get ready, love?" Maddy stood up as Sherlock finally got off her lap and started running around aimlessly. "We'll go to your school together."

Yeah, Ben thought, definitely overprotective.

"Mummy, I'm eleven," Mycroft protested politely. "I shan't need you to take me to school."

"Very well, young man. Get ready, I did not ask you your opinion for this! And we'll have a long talk with your teacher about your behaviour as well!"

"EUGCH!"

 

\- - -

 

Forty years later:

"You do look funny, though," Sherlock smirked and Mycroft sighed the same Holmesian sigh, albeit more dramatic and inaudible.

"I merely came here to enquire about the state of the matters of the Birmingham Treaty Scandal, Sherlock. I do not have time for this. . . nonsense."

"It's not nonsense, Mycroft. This is. . .  _precious_ ," John tried to be serious as he went through things and paraphernalia from their childhood. Mycroft's grip tightened on his umbrella and his knuckles were white, as if to almost restrain himself from lunging himself at those things and take them away from John Watson. However close he might be to Sherlock, there were still some things that the brothers kept between themselves. John and Sherlock might have an invisible seam between them, but there were still things. Things of Sherlock that only Mycroft was allowed to keep to himself. Like his childhood. Their childhood.

"You should abandon this silly whitening tuft, Mycroft," Sherlock advised seriously. "You looked much better in spikes."

"I am NOT going white!" Mycroft protested.

Still like daddy, aren't you?" Sherlock smirked. "Never believed he'd go old. . ."

Sherlock stopped in his words as John gave him a look. Mycroft simply rolled his eyes like a teenager. "John, could you please pack these things and hand them over to me?"

"Oh no," John narrowed his eyes as he picked something up. "This one's a . . ." His eyes widened and he pursed his lips as he blinked furiously. "Mycroft, is this your penmanship?"

Mycroft turned away, awkwardly balancing his weight on his umbrella. Sherlock laughed.

"No, I wrote this for him when I found out that Mycroft was too shy to ask his crush—"

 _Oh, dear Lord!_ Mycroft exhaled to himself, pretending not to hear what Sherlock was about to disclose to John.

 

\- - -

 

THE END


End file.
